Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

There are cases and cabinets. There are tools of the printing trade laid out on a wide, weathered table: fat book blocks and tall spools of heavy thread. Under the table, there are lengths of chain piled up in wide loops. The stove next to me has a wide, smiling grille, and at the top, it sprouts a fat pipe that disappears into the chamber’s ceiling.

Here, deep beneath the streets of Manhattan, I have discovered the world’s weirdest print shop.

“But you got it?” Deckle whispers.

I show him the hard drive in its Bicycle box.

“You got it,” he breathes. The shock doesn’t last long; Edgar Deckle is quickly recomposing himself. “Okay. I think we can make this work. I think—yes.” He nods to himself. “Let me just take these”—he lifts three heavy books, all identical, up off the table—“and I’ll be right back. Stay quiet.”

He balances the books against his chest and goes back the way he came, leaving the light on behind him.

*   *   *

I wait and inspect the print shop. The floor is beautiful: a mosaic of characters, each in its own tile, each deeply etched. The alphabet at my feet.

There’s one metal case much larger than the rest. The top has a familiar symbol: two hands, open like a book. Why do organizations need to mark everything with their insignia? It’s like a dog peeing on every tree. Google is the same way. So was NewBagel.

Using both hands, I grunt and lift the case’s lid. Inside, it’s divided into compartments—some long, some wide, some perfectly square. They all hold shallow piles of metal type: stubby little 3-D letters, the kind you line up on a printing press to make words and paragraphs and pages and books. And suddenly I know what this is.

This is Gerritszoon.

The door clicks again and I whirl to look: Deckle stands there with his hand tucked into his cloak. I am briefly gripped with the certainty that he’s been playing dumb, that he’s betrayed us after all, that he’s been sent back to kill me now. He will do Corvina’s handiwork—maybe flatten my skull with the Gutenberg press. But if he’s bent on clerkicide, he’s putting on a good show: his face is open, friendly, conspiring.

“That’s the inheritance,” Deckle says, nodding to the Gerritszoon case. “Pretty great, huh?”

He strolls over as if we’re just hanging out here, deep beneath the surface of the earth, and reaches down to run round pink fingers through the type. He picks up a tiny e and holds it up to his eye. “The most-used letter in the alphabet,” he says, turning it around, inspecting it. He frowns. “It’s really worn down.”

The subway rumbles through bedrock nearby and it makes the whole room clatter. The Gerritszoon type clinks and shifts; there’s a tiny avalanche of a’s.

“There’s not very much of it,” I say.

“It wears out,” Deckle says, tossing the e back into its compartment. “We break letters but we can’t make new ones. We lost the originals. One of the great tragedies of the fellowship.” He looks up at me. “Some people think if we change typefaces, new codex vitae won’t be valid. They think we’re stuck with Gerritszoon forever.”

“Could be worse,” I say. “It’s probably the best—”

There’s a noise from the Reading Room; a bright bell clangs and makes a long, lingering echo. Deckle’s eyes flash. “That’s him. Time to go.” He gently closes the case, reaches around to the back of his waistband, and pulls out a folded square of black fabric. It’s another robe.

“Put this on,” he says. “Stay quiet. Stay in the shadows.”

BINDING

THERE’S A CROWD of black-robes at the end of the chamber, down by the wooden dais—dozens of them. Is this everybody? They’re talking and whispering, pushing the tables and chairs back. They’re setting things up for a show.

“Guys, guys!” Deckle calls out. The black-robes part and make way for him. “Who’s got mud on their shoes? I see those prints. I just mopped yesterday.”

It’s true: the floor shines like glass, reflecting the colors on the shelves, beaming them back as pale pastels. It’s beautiful. The bell clangs again, echoing in the cave and making a harsh chorus with itself. The black-robes are forming up in front of the dais, facing a single figure, who is of course Corvina. I position myself directly behind a tall blond-haired scholar. My laptop and the crumpled carcass of the GrumbleGear are stuffed back into my bag, which is slung over my shoulder and concealed under my brand-new black robe. I pull my head down toward my shoulders. These robes should really have hoods.

The First Reader has a stack of books in front of him on the dais, and he taps them with sturdy fingers. They’re the books Deckle retrieved from the print shop moments ago.

“Brothers and sisters of the Unbroken Spine,” Corvina calls out. “Good morning. Festina lente.”

“Festina lente,” the black-robes all murmur in return.